


Circumstances

by Aurumite



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Unrequited Love, working through marital stuff like the media never shows you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurumite/pseuds/Aurumite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten short stories about Frederick and Cordelia's marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Night

**1\. Wedding Night**

When Frederick proposed to Cordelia, he did so knowing that she loved his lord the way that he loved her. So be it. Chrom was married already, and Cordelia deserved her own happiness, and Frederick had long since decided that he would give it to her or die trying. She would come around eventually, he was sure, if he put enough effort into it. She'd promised him that she would try, too.

It wasn't that he doubted her sincerity, or underestimated the strength of her feelings. It was just odd to see Cordelia resolve to do something and then fail at it so miserably. In the weeks since he had last proposed he'd given her several gentle kisses and long embraces—with a reasonable lack of privacy, to avoid gossip—but she had been unable to tear her eyes from their Exalt.

On the morning of their wedding, it occurred to him that some might accuse him of being _used_ by her. Like a fool. But he paid the thought no mind. She deserved the stability of marriage and a husband who loved her—and love meant requiring nothing in return.

He rode into town that day, where the army would be staying the night to celebrate the wedding with real beds and warm meals instead of tents and campfires, and spent a long time preparing the room they'd retire to. Candles, their own sheets, petals of her favourite flower. He wanted every detail accounted for, everything just so.

When he had returned, nervous, realizing he'd forgotten to triple-check under the bed for dust he'd missed or that the old, slightly-warped windowpane might let in a draft and make her catch cold, Chrom had laughed. "Never fear, Frederick the Wary. No woman can resist a man who shows such care."

That was the problem, he thought. His lord had quite a time wooing his wife, because he cared for her a great deal but found that difficult to express. Frederick, on the other hand, had always been told that he cared too _much_. That he was stifling. But what else could he do besides care less, which was nigh impossible?

The ceremony was easy. Cordelia gripped his hand tightly and looked almost happy—and she was never truly happy, because she craved perfection, and nothing she did or the world created was completely perfect. Frederick understood this. Things only became rough when Chrom was the first to greet them, embracing him tightly and kissing her hand—"I can't imagine a couple more suited for one another!"—and she turned as red as her hair. Frederick ignored it and she did not meet his eyes for the entire party afterward, although of course they spoke, to avoid worrying the others.

But when he opened the door to their room for that night, she gasped softly—sweetly. "Oh, Frederick."

"Is it to your liking?" Now that he was here again, he could see that the petals weren't scattered evenly in places, that the candles weren't all the same height, and he cursed himself for his carelessness.

"Of course it is!" she said, which surprised him. "I've dreamed of a wedding night like this since I was a little girl. It's all so perfect."

_Everything except the groom._ He looked at her for a long while. Since he became enamoured with her he had devoted himself to knowing her as well as he could; every flick of her eyelashes and twitch of her fingers. She was contemplating what was coming next, and she was tense.

His efforts aside, she just wasn't _ready_.

"I am tired," he said, to spare her. "Our comrades certainly know how to throw an exciting feast. I hope you don't mind if we simply go to sleep."

There was warmth as her arms wrapped fiercely around his waist and her face pressed into his chest, and then it moved away. She said nothing.

He kept his back to her politely as they readied for bed, although he shivered as he blew out the candles—every one that he had positioned so carefully—and slid under the blankets with her. He kissed her gingerly to tell her goodnight and then rolled away from her, looking off into the dark over the edge of the bed.

It hurt, some, that she didn't love or even _want_ him. That her lord made her blush and her husband couldn't do his duty on his own wedding night as a result. He felt even worse that he had fantasized about this moment—simple things, like the colour of her skin in the low light or what her arms would feel like, twined tightly around his neck. He should never have had such stray thoughts, if she wasn't willing.

Love was not demanding, and it would exist long after desire. He shut his eyes and tried to get to sleep despite her soft presence at his back. Perhaps an hour passed before she shifted, put a hand on his shoulder, whispered,

"Frederick?"

"Yes?"

"I've changed my mind. This is our very own wedding night, after all, isn't it?"

He opened his eyes; took in the snuffed-out candles and forgotten flowers. "But this isn't how I planned it."

"And it's not how I dreamed it would be." There was a silence before she ventured, "But look what you've done for me. Look how gallant you've been. I _wish_ to love you, right this instant. Nothing ever happens the way we plan it, in life. What matters is what we make of our circumstances."

There was the Cordelia he'd proposed to, so wise and determined. He rolled to face her, pushed himself up and over her to assure her, "I can make this one good."

"I know you can," she whispered, and tilted her chin up to accept his kiss.

But later, as he fell asleep, he had the day's silent confirmation that no love had yet grown in her heart, for all his efforts. That he had been settled for.


	2. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Cordelia saw the lance plunge into Chrom she took off without a thought, heedless of Frederick crying her name.

Cordelia remembered nothing about the battle—not the terrain, the enemies, or the time of day. Only that the sky was cloudless, because the sun was beating hot on her back as she held Chrom in her arms, using her hair to shade him from the sun and her right hand to staunch the wound in his stomach as his eyes lost focus.

She had been fighting at Frederick's side far away, for they made a good team and she felt safe with him near. His attention to detail meant an enemy never snuck up, a weapon's range was never misjudged, and he'd twice pushed her away from fatal blows that merely glanced off his armour, since they'd been married.

But when she saw the lance plunge into Chrom she took off without a thought, heedless of Frederick crying her name.

Her pegasus was faster than his horse, faster than anyone, and she was the first to Chrom's side, killing his attacker with one savage thrust. She cast her lance aside and jumped from the saddle, gathering him in her arms. It was the first time she had ever touched him. She was too panicked to take in much in the moment, but later she would remember how warm his skin was, how soft his hair felt in the crook of her arm.

"Lissa," he croaked as his large hand covered hers, trying to press the blood back into his body.

"She's coming, my lord," Cordelia assured him, and his noble sister landed on her knees at her side, breathing hard from her sprint to them. While Lissa raised her staff, Cordelia kept her eyes on Chrom's face, only satisfied when the tight lines there finally eased.

"Next time I'll kill you myself!" Lissa snapped when the wound had lightly closed, whacking at her brother's head with an open palm. He laughed and sat up.

"Careful, or I'll make you heal that, too." He turned to Cordelia and clasped her bloodied hand with his. "Thank you, my friend. Sorry about the mess."

"I would do it again without hesitation, my lord."

"It sounds like Frederick is rubbing off on you. Always thinking of others first—aren't you, Frederick?" he called suddenly, and Cordelia registered the sound of galloping for the first time. Her husband was out of the saddle before his horse had even come to a full stop.

"My lord! You must get back to camp and wash that wound immediately, before it becomes infected." His voice sounded strained.

"I'll be fine!" Chrom insisted as he stood. "The battle isn't over; I don't intend to leave until I've done my part."

"But it was so deep," said Frederick weakly.

"And my sister has learned much. Besides, now that you have Cordelia, that's twice the surveillance you can put on me." Chrom smiled at her like she was in on some joke, and her heart thudded painfully.

"Of course, my lord," said Frederick.

Cordelia avoided meeting her husband's eyes.

It wasn't until they'd won and returned to their tent that she realized why, exactly, he had seemed so tense. When he grimaced as he removed his armour, she saw someone had managed to jab their sword beneath it. There was a tear in his shirt, and so much blood had dribbled down his side and leg that she knew the wound must have been deep.

"Frederick!" She wasn't sure if she was more concerned or angry. She made him sit and pulled his shirt over his head, despite the obvious pain he felt raising his arms, and touched the skin just beside his wound gingerly.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she demanded.

"I didn't want to worry anyone."

"You've lost far too much blood! I'm going to clean and patch this and then you're going to see Lady Lissa; you don't have a choice in the matter!"

He was quiet and still while she went to fetch water and washed as much blood away as she could. As she wrapped linen bandages around his middle she forced herself to ask,

"When did this happen?"

"It isn't important."

" _Frederick._ "

He pressed his lips together before he answered, "When you left, for Lord Chrom. I am quite capable of fending for myself, but there were a number of opponents, which is why I was delayed in reaching your side and his. I underestimated the myrmidon among them. It is my own fault."

Once she had tied off his bandages, she pressed her face into his shoulder for a long while. Frederick was wrong. It was _her_ fault. She had left him without a thought, concerned only for Chrom. She had abandoned her husband and he tried to keep his pain a secret from her to spare her any guilt. But she _should_ feel guilt. Heavily, and for a long time.

"I am a terrible wife," she whispered.

"Cordelia," he said with a gentle smile. To make everything worse, his next words were sincere: "A knight must put her lord above all else, even her own husband. I can't fault you."

But his voice lacked his usual conviction. For a moment she wished that the blows intended for Chrom and Frederick had torn through her instead, until she realized that might have warranted their worry, which she did not deserve.

"Go see Lady Lissa," she said instead. "I'll wash your shirt."

He pulled on a spare and kissed the top of her head before he left. She'd hoped he wouldn't.


	3. Insecurities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick learns one of Cordelia's major insecurities. And one of his.

Part of the reason Frederick had fallen for Cordelia was because she was a perfectionist, as he was. In their younger years he'd felt a camaraderie toward her before he even first spoke to her, having seen her gracefully execute manoeuvres that had taken him months to master. He worked hard for perfection, but it came to her naturally, and he admired that. He was grateful that her desire to do well even extended into being a wife.

She did not love him, no, but they still had everything a successful marriage needed: friendship, patience, respect. Sometimes love seemed like a luxury, especially when she stayed up late to make his favourite sandwiches for the next day, or dressed his wounds for him, or mended the tears said wounds made in his clothing with a smile and a quip about how Frederick the Wary had not been wary enough.

If that was what simple friendly affection warranted from a spouse, he tried extra hard to show what love did. He picked wildflowers for her while on the march, rubbed the knots out of her neck every night before bed, got up early each morning to polish everything from her armour to the buckles on her boots, since he knew she liked everything to shine.

He tried not to be overbearing, as Chrom and Lissa accused him of being, but he knew that sometimes he irritated her. It must have been somewhere between stopping her during their march to brush her pegasus multiple times a day (he just couldn't _stand_ when dirt from the road got into its white, white coat), or being unable to come to bed until the tent stakes had been inspected three times, or constantly asking questions when they made love just in case she was not enjoying herself. Still, for as tiring as he surely was, she never once snapped at him or acted exasperated. She remained patient with his small worries, accepting them completely as his quirks, and he was often touched by that.

His favourite part of being married to her—besides knowing she was always safe, at his side—was how he was constantly learning small things about her, things only a husband would know. She was always cold and wore her socks to bed. The insides of her wrists were very sensitive, and just tracing them with a fingertip could excite her. When she was drowsy in the morning she made soft humming noises and seemed to think she was speaking real words.

He didn't learn that she had any insecurities, however, for weeks. Not until he'd realized one morning while polishing her armour that the shape beneath his hand and the shape of her body didn't match up the way they should. When she woke, he already had his boots on and was ready for action.

"We're passing through town today," he told her as she sat up in the bedroll and he sat next to her. "While we're there, we can fit you for a new breastplate."

"What?" she asked. "I don't need a new one."

"But after all these days of polishing your armour, I couldn't help but notice that your breastplate far exceeds the size of your actual breasts."

She blushed. "Good morning! Blunt as always, I see."

"Wearing ill-fitting armour is dangerous," he continued. "Why did you not speak of the problem earlier? We have enough funds to—"

"I wear it too big on purpose!" she interrupted.

"But why?"

"You know, for all your attention to little things, sometimes you can be so _dense_."

"I suppose so," he admitted. "But I am sworn to keep you safe, and must understand why you would willingly expose yourself to such a danger." She mumbled something, and he leaned closer to hear her better. "Yes?"

"I said, it looks better! My chest is so _small_ , I—I don't want anybody finding out!"

"You didn't seem embarrassed that I found out," he said. "Our wedding night it was quite dark, but the morning after—"

"There was no sense in hiding it from you. You're my husband. And you said you loved me." Her blush had only deepened.

"Cordelia," he said bemusedly. "Are you self-conscious about this?"

After a long moment she nodded, curtly. He could tell it was difficult for her to do so, and his bafflement only increased.

"Why would you ever feel that way? You're so perfect. Just look at you. Talented, and beautiful enough that every knight in Ylisse asked to court you before this war began, and with a figure like—"

"A boy," she finished for him sourly.

He was inclined to disagree. Strongly. But he didn't have enough time that morning to extol all the virtues of her body, for he would surely be there all day. So he simply told her,

"I think your breasts as wonderful as the rest of you. Besides, larger ones would be impractical in combat."

She snorted and covered her mouth with a hand, perhaps embarrassed of his bluntness or that she'd made such an unladylike sound. After a moment, she lowered her hand and he saw that she was smiling.

"Thank you, Frederick."

He wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, so he just cleared his throat and stood. "Come now; let's measure you so we can shop more quickly in town."

She stayed sitting and put her hands on her hips, insisting, "Oh, no! I'm keeping that breastplate. You can't make me give it up."

"It's a hazard," he protested, but she only lifted an eyebrow.

"I'll take the risk."

xxx

He remembered the exchange fondly in the days to come, feeling like he'd learned something very intimate about her, and like she trusted him. She seemed a lot more confident during the following nights, too, and demanded his attentions for the first time since they'd been married. While he began to be more tired during the day, between staying up late for her and getting up early to take care of things, it was a pleasant sort of tired. He was starting to feel like a better husband: stronger, more desirable, more capable.

He felt like he had no significant insecurities of his own, anymore. Even knowing that she still loved Chrom became easier to bear, after how comfortable their arrangement was. He was lucky to have her by his side, and thought that perhaps her unrequited feelings might stop troubling him completely, until one day she woke up and loved him instead.

He was proven sorely wrong the next night.

While he was readying for bed, she'd burst into the tent and kissed him with a passion he'd never encountered from her before. Surprised but pleased, he sank to the ground with her, knowing what she wanted without having to ask a single question.

Well, he had _one_ , gasped out from between her kisses: "What's all this about?"

"I want to be a good wife."

"Of course you're a good—"

"I want to be a _better_ wife."

For the next long while she was the best of wives, as far as he was concerned. She wasn't merely accepting him as she always had, or coercing him into acting so she _could_ accept him, as she had the past few nights—she was _needing_ him, for the first time, and it made him feel a deeper tenderness for her than ever before.

Until she cried out a name.

"Frederick," he corrected quietly as his heart tripped over itself.

"What?" She opened her eyes and met his.

"My name is Frederick."

Horror flickered over her face. She covered her mouth and sat up, but by then he'd pushed himself away and started pulling his clothes back on.

"Frederick, no, I can explain—"

"No need," he said shortly as he left the tent. It was the first time in his life he'd left something unfinished.

Since he obviously wasn't going to be able to return, he resigned himself to a sleepless night. The positive side he had told him that was several more hours he could spend cooking and cleaning around the camp to help the others, so he should make the most of them.

But for a long while, he couldn't. He just sat in the dark by the ashes of the cooking fire, not even twitching when the mosquitoes found him, lost in thought.

At first he wanted to be angry with Chrom, but he knew it was wrong to think ill of his lord, and he also knew that this wasn't Chrom's fault. The Exalt was and always had been completely oblivious of Cordelia's feelings.

He wanted to be angry with her, next. He tolerated her staring and her sighing and her blushes, because he knew she needed time. But for her to think of Chrom when they were being _intimate_? It seemed like too much for him to forgive, even if he truly loved her. It was _cruel_.

But he couldn't blame her, either. He had proposed even after she'd confessed the strength of her love. He had rushed them into marriage, too afraid to wait for her feelings to fade in case the war killed one of them, in case he was parted from her forever. He had been overconfident, assuming he could win her over, when surely such a brilliant woman understood her own heart well enough.

He was really the one to blame, the one he should be angry with.

Sometime around midnight, he found the strength to start a fire, so he could start cleaning weapons with its light. Moping was never useful. He should at least be productive while he was at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to villainize Cordelia for settling. Hopefully next chapter will fix some of that, since it's from her PoV and she has some talking to do. 
> 
> In other news, FE breastplates for women, with their individual boob cups, are literally The Stupidest (for reasons I won't bore you with here). So for all you armour enthusiasts, join me in my headcanon of women having actual women's breastplates and Fred freaking out because if your armour isn't snug over your padding and etc., you're going to have to deal with the extra force of the armour plus the blow slamming into you, rather than just the blow.


	4. Reparations

For a long while after Frederick had gone, Cordelia sat there in the dark, cold and clutching their blanket even though the night was warm.

She hadn't meant for this to happen.

Earlier, she had been on her way back to the tent she shared with Frederick for the night, and had to pass by Chrom's tent to make it there. In the weeks since she'd been married, her feelings _had_ changed, but not in any way she wanted them to. Instead of the searing flood in her heart that had always occurred at the sight of him, she now felt more of an _ache_ , a sharp bruising that left her a little breathless. Because he was married now, and so was she, and she had been forced to get a sterner grip on how strong those promises of _until death_ had to be.

She wanted to love Frederick. He aggravated her with his meticulousness, with his checking and double-checking, but he was good. Simply _good_. And he did so much for her. If anyone deserved her complete and undying affection, it was someone who was sitting there when she first opened her eyes, looking at her with such loyalty it would have put an entire pack of dogs to shame, saying, "Good morning! I've polished your boots again. I know you can do it yourself but you have enough to do."

It was so funny to hear that, sometimes, from a man who got anxious when he didn't have a thousand different tasks. The thought of him all flustered and busy made her smile a little, and she didn't realize Chrom had poked his head out of his tent until he hailed,

"Cordelia!"

"My lord!" she half-gasped, afraid to believe the voice was his.

"I have a quick question. Will you come in for a second?"

He ducked back into his tent and she had no choice but to follow. When she'd entered, she flushed immediately to see that the light was low and his shirt was off. He didn't seem to notice, and sat down on his cot as he waved her in further.

"Tell me, how is Frederick? He's seemed very tired lately; I wanted to make sure he wasn't falling ill or anything."

She was relieved when he pulled his shirt on. Surely, with him so in love with his wife and her so devoted to Frederick, he hadn't seen any harm in allowing her in before he was completely decent. But harm had been done. She wished to throw herself into his lap and kiss him senseless.

"He's just fine, milord," she answered instead. "If he seems tired, it may be because he has been getting up early each day to take care of our armour. I shall tell him to stop."

"Oh, don't; he's always been an early riser. He'll just find something else to do. Has he been sleeping long enough each night?" Before she could answer, he laughed a little. "Never mind, that was a foolish question, with you both newly married. I remember what that's like."

She felt her blush darken; she could only imagine. How fortunate his queen was, to have him in his own bed in the castle, on sheets that smelled like him, to see that bare skin whenever she desired it, to know the sound of his moaning as intimately as she knew the sound of her own name. It was too hot in the tent. How much would she regret it later if she got to her knees and confessed what she was thinking?

"I'm sorry," he said, seeming to realize she was flustered. "I suppose that was too forward. I feel like I know you better than I really do, since Frederick speaks of you so often."

"Don't trouble yourself, milord," she assured him, mostly to stop him from talking. She now had thoughts enough to keep her awake for many nights to come.

"Well," he said, "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't being careless with his health."

"I will make doubly sure that he isn't," she said, and he smiled at her. All of his smiles always seemed so tender, so satisfied with every exchange.

"Thank you. Rest well."

"Good night, my lord."

The temptation to lean over and kiss him came again, stronger than ever. She'd hurried back to her tent with her heart hammering, hoping to envelop herself in Frederick. 

The opposite had happened, despite her intentions.

The better Frederick had made her feel, the more disjointed her thoughts became, and it was only natural that her most recent memory—of her lord in his tent—would be among them just by happenstance. But by the time it flitted across her mind, despite knowing it was her husband there with her, despite imagining no more of Chrom than the brief sight of his bare chest, when she opened her mouth the wrong name emerged anyway.

It was a slip. One that sounded worse than it was, and was terrible to begin with. She hadn't even had the words to explain herself before Frederick left her.

Her first thought was to dress and follow him, to clear her name and put his mind at ease, but she found that she couldn't. She didn't think he would believe her.

After a while she laid down again to wait for him, but he never returned, and her rest was fitful. Just before sunrise she rose and readied for the day, unable to stand the thought of him upset any longer.

As she walked over the fog-dusted grass—completely free of twigs and rocks, since Frederick had surely needed a way to pass the night—she realized that she had never had to give anyone an apology, before. Not a _real_ one, for she was sure that the words she'd always given after she knocked a sparring partner over the head or teased Sumia for her clumsiness were unnecessary, since the partner would always thank her for the lesson and Sumia would always laugh and push her.

This would be necessary. She'd upset someone who truly loved her, and who deserved her respect. It had been an accident, yes, but it was her fault for always thinking so eagerly of Chrom that she couldn't get him out of her head even when she wanted to. She hadn't even _tried_ to break the habit, and she had promised Frederick when she accepted his ring that she would try.

She owed him an apology for that, not just for the name she'd cried. It was a matter of promises, and she was a woman of honour. It was why she'd agreed to marry him in the first place, without love: he was the only man she knew who could understand the concept as deeply as she did.

He was sitting by the fire with his back to her, cooking enough food to feed two armies, brown hair askew since his comb was in their tent. For a moment she just allowed herself to look at him. How undesirable had she made him feel? He was a plain man but not unattractive, and had the physique a knight needed to bear his armour: tall, broad-shouldered, hard-muscled. And for all his questions while he was acting as a lover, she couldn't deny that he listened to every answer, even the unspoken, purely physical ones. The talent had surprised her, but certainly wasn't unwelcome.

"Frederick?" she asked quietly.

She saw his back stiffen and it occurred to her that she should rub the knots out of him, as he so often did to her. Resolving to do so that night, if she could smooth things over by then, she sat beside him gingerly and ignored the dew that seeped into her skirt.

"Making breakfast, I see," she ventured after a moment, feeling awkward. He didn't look at her as he took the wooden spoon in the large metal pot over the fire and gave the oatmeal inside a stir.

"I am concerned that Lord Chrom and Lady Lissa don't eat enough starch."

"Well, there's certainly enough in there," she said. Silence fell between them, thicker than the fog. He hadn't grabbed his tie before he left and his shirt fell open in the front. She knew he was anxious about looking so dishevelled in front of the army, so she decided to get things out of the way fast enough for him to return to their tent and clean up:

"Frederick…I'm so sorry. And not because of what I said, exactly."

"I should hope you would be sorry for that," he said. "I am."

"Well, I am, yes. But what I mean is that, when you proposed to me, I told you that I would try my hardest to leave Chrom behind me. That I would be devoted only to you. And I've done a terrible job of it, because I _haven't_ tried my hardest." She felt so awful admitting it. Cordelia the Prodigy, too frightened to even make a proper apology. "Because love is…pleasant."

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes," she repeated softly, feeling her heart sink. "But I've been selfish, and immature. Something that hurts, even if it feels good sometimes too, just isn't healthy."

He looked very pensive at that, so she put a hand on his shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you, Frederick." He didn't say anything, didn't _need_ to say that she already had. "It wasn't quite what you think. I saw Chrom right before we went to bed."

"Did you," he said, a little coolly.

"He wanted to ask me about your health," she said, and his expression immediately became contrite. "I swear to you, I wasn't imagining him while I was with you. I've never done that. But the memory of seeing him came up, and…" She broke off and spread her hands, still incapable of explaining exactly what had happened. "I don't know. I just said what I said. Force of habit, perhaps. And I'm sorry that it's _still_ a habit. I'm so sorry."

He finally met her eyes then. "Cordelia. It seems I've judged you wrongly."

"No, no," she said with a sigh. "You were right to be upset. It wouldn't have happened if I'd tried harder to get over him."

He was quiet for a long moment, but then said, "I had assumed our marriage was a smooth one, but perhaps there are still some problems to be sorted out. I did not know you were not doing your best. What else should I know?"

She bit her lip as she thought. "You should know that I _will_ keep trying, with everything I am. Because you are good to me and I want to be good to you, too. You should know that I am ashamed. And you should know that you have nice shoulders."

"Oh," he said in surprise.

"And that I would never lie to you," she added. "I should have come to apologize far sooner, I know, but I was afraid that you wouldn't believe me."

"Then I have failed you, too." He took her right hand in his left and threaded their fingers together. "Is there anything else I should know about myself? Anything I must do better?"

She wanted to insist that there was no possible way he could better himself, for she appreciated him despite—

The _despite_ made her pause.

"Well," she said, "sometimes there can be…too much of a good thing." She saw from the way his brow creased that he didn't understand, so she continued,

"You don't have to polish everything for me every single morning. You don't have to brush my pegasus. You don't have to constantly straighten my bangs or triple-check the tent stakes or ask so many _questions_ at night. You just… _fret_. And I know this is how you show your love, but sometimes it makes me feel like you don't think I'm capable, or I can't take care of myself, or if you _don't_ do it I'll be angry. But Frederick, if I was unhappy with you, I would tell you so. It isn't your job to read my mind."

He looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon and she had to bite back a smile. Perhaps he had never considered the last thing she'd said.

"So you are telling me now," he surmised. "That you have been unhappy."

"Not at all." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I _am_ happy with you. But no marriage is perfect. It's like you always say—there's always room for improvement. I shall work toward it."

"Yes," he said, and smiled for the first time that morning. "And I as well. To keep from smothering you. But without the questions, I—"

"You'll do just fine," she said as she smiled back at him. "You're a good lover. Very attentive."

She felt foolish and forward saying it, but knew it had to be said, after how deeply she had hurt his feelings, and was rewarded when she saw him blush for the very first time since his proposal.

"Is all well, then?" she dared to ask.

"I have something else to say. Regarding improvement."

"Yes?" she asked nervously; she hadn't realized she'd been doing multiple things wrong.

"Last night…" He trailed off and ran a hand through his already-tousled hair. "Well, before, you'd always _allowed_ me. But last time you seemed like you actually _wanted_ me. I assumed it was because you were thinking of another, but…"

She felt herself pink a little, too. "Well, I…almost was. Remember where I had just come from. But I didn't _want_ to. It felt disloyal to you. So I wanted to get as much of you as I could. To fill myself up, almost, and leave no space for anything else."

Gods, she sounded so _stupid_ , but he simply nodded as if he understood.

"Is this only something that will happen after you have spoken to Lord Chrom, then? Or can I safely hope for it in the future? Because I must admit, sometimes I wonder if you only accept me out of some feeling of duty, and I feel guilty for it."

It was partly duty, she had to admit to herself, but mostly affection, and a great deal of attraction. Even if she didn't love him, she knew how strongly he loved _her_ , and wanted to make him happy. So she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb and said,

"I think you can hope for it, and you mustn't ever feel guilty. I didn't marry you on a whim, you know. I know what marriage entails, and I am happy to share all of it—home, bed, children. You've always been a good friend, and I thought you'd be a good lover, and I'm quite sure you'd be quite a good father. When I said yes, Chrom or no Chrom, I meant it."

He just kissed her knuckles, and she understood that all was forgiven.

"Why don't you go back to the tent and get ready for the day?"

"All right." He stood at once; the sun had started to peek over the horizon. "Make sure to stir the pot 98 times; I've only done it 202 times."

"Yes, dear," she said, a little teasingly.

"Dear," he repeated thoughtfully, and took her hand to kiss it again before he left. Cordelia took the spoon and began to stir the oatmeal, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her chest—everything from the night before, but perhaps a little extra. Perhaps some of the weight she'd been carrying for far too long, now.


	5. Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His whole life had been filled with little things: cleared pebbles and matching socks and precise hues of blankets. Frederick the Wary was not a man of big pictures, but of tiny details, just in case those details proved to be important. One could never be too careful.

That night Cordelia surprised him. He had stayed up late folding laundry in their tent: Chrom's, Lissa's, Cordelia's, his, in four neat little piles. He thought he was alone until her hands landed on his shoulders and her thumbs started to press into his muscles.

"Just as I thought," she said. "You're so tense."

"We're a matching pair."

"They should call you Frederick the Thorough," she said, sounding amused. "While folding laundry, you even _speak_ in laundry terms."

She kept rubbing his shoulders, and his eyes fluttered shut before he had the presence of mind to shrug away. "No. I have to finish, first."

"What you have to do is relax."

"Work before play."

"Makes Frederick a dull boy."

"I've always been dull," he said mildly as he rolled two socks together. "And the phrase is ' _all_ work and _no_ play.'"

"There's no reason why you can't combine the two," she offered, settling her hands on him again.

He liked compromises because everybody won, a little bit.

After she finished his shoulders she moved up to his neck, and down his back when she'd finished there. By that time everything was folded and he allowed his eyes to close again, although his mind was busy. What did she mean to say by massaging the knots out of him? What was the purpose?

"Did you want to make love tonight?" he guessed.

"Not especially." She sounded confused but her answer confused him more.

"Do you want a new pendant?"

"What?" Her hands stopped.

"Why are you rubbing my shoulders?" he asked.

"Because I want to?"

"For no reason?"

"Yes," she said. "You do it for me almost every night. Can't I do it for you once in a while?"

"But there's no motive?" he asked. "I'm not really one for subtlety; this is difficult for me."

"Frederick, I'm not being subtle. I told you that I don't expect you to read my mind, remember?"

"But how am I to know that I'm pleasing you? Doing everything you want me to do?" He started to get that nervous tightness in his chest that happened when he didn't check something enough times. She kissed the back of his neck and it eased a little.

"I said I'd be honest with you. And right now, I just honestly want you to relax a little."

"You've loosened all my muscles, there," he told her as her thumbs went back to his shoulders.

"I know," she said. "But it still feels good, doesn't it?"

He nodded and allowed himself a happy sigh. So she wanted to do something nice for him—and that was it? As always, she did an exceptional job of it. He was lucky she'd agreed to marry him. He was lucky she cared for him at all, even as a friend.

"I love you," he whispered.

She didn't respond, and he didn't expect her to. He just wanted her to know.

xXx

The next few weeks felt odd, to Frederick. The war only got more bitter and difficult, but his personal life was wonderful, full of small joys that he and Cordelia tried to give to each other—things like spontaneous shoulder rubs, since they both tended to tense to the point of headaches for no reason at all.

He knew they had different motivations, for this. He did them because he always had, because he loved her. And while she didn't quite love him the same way, she did them simply to make him happy. This system—this selflessness—worked out very well for them both.

She started to call him "dear" because she could sense that he liked it. He stopped fussing with her gear and let her bangs fall into her eyes if she wanted them to. She began to moan his name at night, and while he knew it wasn't because of any skill on his part, he also knew she did it to reassure him, and it worked. To return the favour he started paying her one deliberate compliment each day about her chest. At first she blushed, and he felt forward, but she needed to understand that there was nothing for her to be ashamed of. It was weeks before he repeated a single comment, and by then her blushes had turned to smiles.

At night, though he longed to sleep with her in his arms, she was never one for cuddling and so he kept a space between them. That was why she surprised him again when she rolled over one night, resting her head on his chest and her arm around his waist.

"You love me," she said.

"I do."

"Do you know how I know?"

He had to think about that. What did he do that was grand or colossal enough to prove something so strong, so eternal?

"Is it because I say it every day?" he guessed. And he did: after they were in bed and before his prayers, every night without fail.

"No."

"Is it because I won't demand your love in return?"

"No."

This puzzled him, but he tried once more: "Is it because I would die for you?"

"No," she said. He knew she was smiling. "It's because of the little things."

He found that oddly sweet. His whole life had been filled with little things: cleared pebbles and matching socks and precise hues of blankets. Frederick the Wary was not a man of big pictures, but of tiny details, just in case those details proved to be important (one could never be too careful). To be told that this was how love showed itself was at once powerful and comforting.

But it also didn't make complete sense.

"You do the little things for me, too," he whispered to Cordelia.

She was silent for a long moment. And then: "I care for you, Frederick. More than I did weeks ago, and more than when we were married."

He stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond, and she told him,

"Sometimes I go for days without thinking of Chrom, now."

They both knew what she meant to say. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair, and she let him hold her all night long. Everything was wonderful, he thought. Would _be_ wonderful.

But the next morning they met a girl with his hair and Cordelia's chin, and she was _furious_ with her mother.


	6. Motherhood

"Chrom, Chrom, Chrom! Everything is Chrom, with you! If you loved him so much, you should've just married him!"

Cordelia could only stare as the girl took off, brown pigtails bobbing, bent on saving her companion and heedless of anything else.

"My sweet?" she heard Frederick ask. There was the hiss of sand as his horse stopped behind her pegasus. "Who was that? What did she have to say?"

She couldn't answer.

"Well?" he pressed. "Is she for or against us? Did you not fly ahead to determine the answer?"

She turned to him and opened her mouth, but it was still a moment before words appeared: "She's for us."

"Then why does she continue without us?" he asked as his eyes narrowed at her retreating form. "She does not appear to be an ally."

 _That may be my fault_ , she thought. _Somehow._

"Frederick, we can figure it out later. Let's get back to Lord Chrom's side."

"But if she betrays our position—"

"We'll be there to protect him."

"Of course," he said, but paused as he took the reins. "What is the matter? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I think," she said, "it's the opposite."

xxx

After the battle, while Frederick met with Chrom and Robin to debrief, Cordelia sought the girl out, clutching at her sleeve before she could enter the bathing tent.

"Get off me!" the girl said as she jerked from her grip.

"Please," said Cordelia. "That ring you recovered. It's the same as mine, isn't it? So that means you really are…"

"Your daughter," said the girl, scowling at the ground. "I see you've finally noticed me. Are we done here? I hate being sweaty."

"But I have so many questions!" They spilled up into her throat: about the future, about their relationship, about Frederick. She wanted to embrace the young woman in front of her, so strong and so beautiful and so obviously _hers_ , but her sharp, wary eyes made her hesitate, made her start slow. "What is your name?"

"Severa. Not that I'm surprised you don't remember."

Such a pretty name, and such hostility! She felt nervous as she wondered where it could be springing from, but attempted humour: "Well, how can I remember something I've never learned? Not yet, at least."

"Right, I forgot. You're perfect."

"Really?" Cordelia asked. She hadn't put much thought into children yet, especially not with the war going on, but she'd always hoped for a daughter and always hoped she'd be a good parent. "What sort of mother was I?"

"You were wonderful. Except for the part where you abandoned me."

"Abandoned you?" Cordelia was shocked. She could never imagine doing anything like that; surely it wasn't true. "How could I have—?"

"Cordelia!" Frederick's voice interrupted her and she turned to watch him stride to her side, protectively close, hands clasped behind his back as they always were when he was appraising a situation. "Forgive me for interrupting your conversation, but I must question this girl first. She could be a spy, or worse, an assassin."

"Oh, _gods_ ," said Severa as she rolled her eyes. "Look who it is."

"Frederick, that won't be necessary," Cordelia told him. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, as hard as her daughter had spat out Chrom's name. "Look at her ring."

The knight took Severa's hand and examined it, and while his eyes softened just slightly, his expression did not change as he released her. "She could be an imposter."

"Frederick, _look_ at her!"

He did, despite Severa's glare and the tense silence. He looked for a long while before he took a deep, resolved breath.

"My girl," he said as he put a hand gingerly against her cheek. "You are so like your mother."

Cordelia expected her to wrench away, and she did—but first she studied him too, almost lovingly, for only half a second.

"I guess I _did_ inherit your hair," said Severa gruffly. "I could never be sure; you were all grey for as long as I could remember."

"I told you so," Cordelia said to Frederick, which made him raise an eyebrow. A man who worried so much was bound to grey before his time, as she'd taken to reminding him.

"Like _you_ care!" Severa snapped at her. "Gods, everything is the same back here as it was in the future; I don't know what I expected. Let's make this clear: I'm not looking to relive some stupid fantasy like the others are. Dad left to fight in the war, and you left right after, and I have no real interest in talking to either of you."

"How?" was all Cordelia could think to say, inarticulately. "Why? If it was just you and I, what in the world could I have left you for?"

"You're really going to make me say it? _Today?_ In front of Dad?"

She was so confused that she could only stare. And Frederick stared. And Severa stared back.

"It was Chrom," she said finally, but the malice was gone from her voice and the anger was gone from her eyes. The girl that answered them was hollow. "You went to go fight for Chrom. He was always more important than me. I'm not stupid. Now leave me alone." 

She turned and pushed her way into the bathing tent. Cordelia looked after her for a long while, and then she and Frederick looked at each other. There was a straining between them, a sharp need to speak, to say something, _anything_.

Neither did. They turned from each other and busied themselves with separate chores for the rest of the day.

xxx

That night, the space between them was wider than usual. Cordelia was curled into a tight ball and Frederick lay on his back, looking up at the canvas.

"I can't believe we left her," she whispered finally.

"I'm sure we had no choice," he said. "She comes from an apocalypse. If milord fought against it, I'm sure that I would be at his side, for yours and Severa's sakes as well as his."

"I'm sure I would do the same."

"For different motives, it seems."

That shut her up. She squeezed her body into a tighter curl. The changes happened so slowly that she hadn't realized until recently that it was becoming easier and easier to be around Chrom without aching, easier and easier to dote on her husband. She thought she had been making progress.

Was she wrong, then? Would she slip back to the way things were before? Was she doomed to love her lord forever, hurting her husband and daughter the entire time?

The thought of them suffering because of her failures was too difficult to bear, worse than knowing she couldn't save Phila, worse than fleeing while her order of Pegasus Knights died for her. This time she wasn't simply useless, she was causing the pain. She began to weep—as silently as she could, until a sob she couldn't control escaped.

Frederick sat bolt-upright immediately. "I'm sorry. I was too harsh."

She shook her head and sobbed again. He must've thought his words brought on her tears, when truthfully he wasn't being harsh _enough_.

"I don't _want_ to love him, Frederick. Is Severa telling the truth? I'm so frightened to know that even years and years from now, I still won't be free."

He closed the space between them by pulling her to him, and she curled up once more against his side and cried into his shirt. For a long while he held her, saying nothing, but she had so _much_ to say.

"This has always been something I can't control. It's scary and I hate it. I don't want to hurt you, _ever_ , let alone nonstop for the next twenty years, and I want to be a good mother. Is this all outside my control, too?"

"You are a different woman now than the woman who gave birth to Severa," he said. "Just by the fact that our children have come back to alter time, we have been altered as well."

"But what if this is something about me that doesn't change?"

"I expect you'll be a good mother no matter what. You're good at everything."

"That's nonsense! I _left_ her! I left my only child alone!"

"Perhaps it wasn't a choice but a necessity," he said. "You won't know until you reach that part of your life and see your options for yourself. And if we can win this war, that moment may never come."

"Unless I didn't leave for the war, but for Chrom." She clutched at his shirt. "Perhaps in the future, I will leave anyway."

"If that is what would make you happy," he said, very quietly, "then that is what you should do. All I ask is that you make sure I am still around for our child."

"I don't want to go, Frederick. I don't want to!"

"Then why are you worrying?" He rested his cheek against her hair. "Why would you do something you don't want to do?"

"But the future—"

"Has changed," he finished. "And so have you."

She hoped he was right. That night she let him hold her again, and she tried to hold him too, desperate for him to know she wasn't a monster, even if it seemed she couldn't avoid becoming one.


	7. Fatherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially the most fun I've had writing a chapter.

Severa warmed to him faster than she did to her mother. It was certainly still a slow process, for she had a lashing tongue and a lack of respect that Frederick sternly curbed whenever possible. Still, the more he watched her, the more he saw that she had his tidiness and dedication to training, and her mother's perfectionism and frustration whenever she did anything wrong. The longer he was with her, the greater he cared for her—respected her, even. She'd certainly had a harder life than he had. And perhaps that, mixed with his regret for however his future self had been lacking as a father, made it easy for him to touch her shoulder, to call her pet names, to start training to be a better father right away.

She made him wonder a great many things: what had her first word been? Did he ever play with her on the kitchen floor before dinner? What had Cordelia looked like pregnant? The idea made him ache with longing. To stop warring for a while and have a real _family_ with the love of his life was something every man wanted eventually, he was sure, even the most diligent of knight commanders.

Things were tense because Severa wouldn't speak to her mother, tense because he made her do chores, tense because she came from a time when he was wrong, when Cordelia never came around, when his companionship and that of the child he'd sired was completely inadequate for her. But she was still proof that he and Cordelia had _made_ something together, and even if they'd left her— _had_ to leave her, he hoped was the case—wasn't she just beautiful? Wasn't she strong, coming back with Lucina and the others the way she did?

He came across her far from camp as he was patrolling one evening, sharpening blades with a whetstone so savagely that she was chipping their steel edges. She uttered an angry cry as she broke the fifth and hurled it away.

"Severa," he said. "Frustration has little place on the battlefield, let alone off it."

She looked up guiltily, as if noticing him for the first time, but her scowl did not fade. "Oh, good! Come to watch me fail, have you?"

"Not at all." He tucked his hands behind his back, sure that the rest of his patrol would be delayed. "I just thought I should say something. Your mother keeps track of the armoury and told me we would soon not have enough swords."

"Well, _sorry_ to fail Mother again!"

"What are you talking about? You haven't failed anyone."

"Not yet. But I will! You'll see! In the future, nothing I do will ever be good enough for you both." She jammed the stone against another blade. "I'm not smart like Mother, and I know you were always comparing me to her."

She looked nearly on the verge of tears. Frederick was confused, but had dealt with similarly sudden tears from Lissa and Maribelle—and, just once, Sully—as they were growing into women, so he knew to sit down beside her.

"Severa," he said gently, "I'd never compare you to Cordelia. You're your own person."

"You did!" she insisted. "You were always so hard on me! Lucina adored her father, and Kjelle's father doted on her, but you and I were just like—like a drill master and a useless new recruit!"

He had been the failure, then, he realized as his heart sank. His whole life, he'd been hard on everyone: the Shepherds, the squires, and now even his own daughter. The person he should be cherishing.

"Severa, you aren't useless. I drill _everyone_. For everything. I suppose…I should work on calming down, a little bit."

"Yeah," she said angrily.

There was a silence.

"Everyone was always sizing me up against Mother," she said then. "That's why I couldn't become a pegasus rider. I just couldn't take it. You taught me the sword instead, but I refused to become a knight, and that disappointed you."

"I'm sorry," he said, honestly. "I can't imagine being disappointed in you."

"You sure were the other day, when I tricked you into buying all that stuff!"

"That's different," he said with a sigh. "That was willful manipulation. What you want to do with your _life_ is a choice that is yours to make and yours alone, and I should have supported it."

"You did support me," she admitted, a little grudgingly. "You always did. And Mother did, too. I just…hated to disappoint you. I knew that you secretly wanted something different from me, but I just couldn't do anything to either of your stupidly high standards."

"I don't know that we wanted you to be something different," he said. "Perhaps we just gave you the wrong idea. I'm sure that if we were too hard on you, it was because we thought that was best for you. We must have known the end was coming. We must have wanted you to be strong enough to live through it."

"Whatever," she sneered, even as her face softened and she blinked hard. "This is all speculation. A big waste of time."

"No," he said. "It is true. In the future, I loved you more than life itself."

"Yeah, right. What do _you_ know about the future?"

"I am quite certain of this, at least. I must have loved you then, for I already love you now."

Her tears escaped, rolling down her face. She drew up her knees and hugged them, shoulders shaking, but he resisted the urge to reach out to her because there was something else she needed to know:

"Your mother loves you, too. You're all she talks about, Severa—how lovely you are, or how excited she is to have a child like you when this is over, or how proud she is of what you've accomplished."

The girl crumbled right in front of his eyes, muscles going slack, hands reaching out for him weakly until she'd wrapped her arms around him. He held her while she cried against his shoulder, perhaps a bit awkwardly since he still wasn't used to being a father, but as comfortingly as he could manage.

"I love you, too," she said when she finally pulled away, bright red. "And I love Mother. I've missed you both so much."

"You should tell her so," he said. "She feels terrible. She always wanted to be the perfect mother to you."

"She was perfect," Severa whispered.

"Please, speak to her." Because she wept with guilt at night for a crime she hadn't yet committed, he thought, although he couldn't say so. Cordelia would be furious if anyone else knew she let herself cry about anything.

"I will," promised Severa. "And Daddy…I'm so sorry about what I said, earlier. About Chrom."

"Exalt Chrom," he corrected, but she just rolled her eyes.

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about! But look, that was awful of me to do, dropping him in front of you like that. I was being malicious. You and Mother were always so stiff around each other, and the older I got, the more I realized it was because of him, and I was so angry at you both for it, because all I wanted was a home as happy as Lucina's or Kjelle's. When I saw you two those days ago, I was still angry. I wanted you to know that you'd hurt me, and I wanted to hurt you too." She was blushing again. "That was wrong, and I'm a terrible daughter. You should drown me in a sack."

"Do not be ridiculous. If what you spoke was the truth…" he said quietly, unable to finish the sentence.

She just shrugged. "Then you're a cuckold and Mother's a bitch; that's life. But really"—she pressed on before he could scold her for calling her own mother such a word—"you both seem…different, in this time. Maybe that's how it always was and you both changed in the future; I don't know. But right now, you seem like something that can work. Like something's better."

"All a person can do is their best," he said, but her words gave him hope. "Now, you should run back to camp and speak with your mother."

"But the swords," she said as she cast the dull pile a frustrated glance.

"I'll take care of them. Off with you."

She stood and dusted off her skirt, narrowing her eyes and pointing down at him before she left. "Fine. But don't think this makes you a cool dad or anything! Because you're not!"

He felt the corners of his mouth lift once she was gone, and began to run the whetstone down the first unbroken blade.

xxx

Once again, despite the war, life eased. Severa began speaking to her mother—at first only in exchange for extra dessert, but gradually of her own free will, until the two women were often seen together, simply talking. Frederick assumed it was because of their senses of humour. Severa was very bold and very sharp, and while he didn't approve of how frank she was in front of her own mother, Cordelia never seemed to mind. Besides, Cordelia had a quiet sarcasm, herself, which Severa seemed to love.

He was never ignorant of the fact that any day, one of them could die, and the happy family they were building could be broken once again. But he didn't allow himself to dwell on it, because he didn't want to be too harsh on any child he might have in the future, and he was sure Cordelia would prefer it if his hair didn't grey prematurely. Two of the most important people in his life had asked him to fret less, and he had to do his best.

Or at least, he planned on it, until he found Severa up in a tree at sunset, while he was taking out the dishwater from dinner to dump. Normally, his daughter up so high would have worried him a little, but that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that Inigo was also in the tree.

And his tongue was in her mouth.

"Young lady!" he barked, making them both jump.

"Go away, Dad!" she shouted back.

"I'll do no such thing until that scoundrel with you gets out of the tree!"

"Sir," Inigo stammered, "I didn't mean any harm!"

"I've seen how you treat the women of this camp! I insist upon a fifty-yard restraining order for my daughter from this moment forward!"

"Dad! You're being ridiculous!"

"You're far too young for this, Severa."

"Just because you _met_ me a couple months ago doesn't mean I'm an _infant_. I'm practically your age!"

"You don't know what you're doing!"

"I know _exactly_ what I'm doing." She seized Inigo's collar and kissed him again. The boy closed his eyes.

Frederick just gasped, angrier than he thought he'd ever been—and not even at Severa. So what if this was what she wanted? Inigo shouldn't be anywhere _near_ her, shouldn't even have _let_ her! That rascal! Manhandling his daughter! Or…allowing himself to be manhandled!

"Don't make me come up there!" he threatened. "I climb like—like a bear!"

"Come on," said Severa to Inigo, "let's go."

Before he could chase them they'd jumped from the tree, her landing cat-like and him tumbling like the floozy dancer he was, and then they were off, laughing, holding hands as they ran.

He scowled after them and then went to get his axe.

xxx

Cordelia found him at twilight, when he'd hewed halfway through the trunk.

"Frederick?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"Chopping, of course," he said between swings.

"Yes, but why? We have plenty of firewood."

"It is not for firewood."

"What?"

"Severa was up in this tree. With Inigo. They were both acting completely indecent, so I must remove the temptation."

"By chopping down this tree," said Cordelia, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"But there are a thousand trees around here. Are you going to chop down all of them?"

He surveyed the landscape, calculating how many he could fell that night. "That was the intent, yes."

He thought she would side with him, would be mad at Severa, or—even better—would join him on his quest to bring Inigo to justice.

But instead, she laughed. She laughed so hard she clutched at her sides, and then sank down onto one of the tree's roots.

"Frederick!" she cried as she wiped a tear away. "No wonder the poor thing was so mad at us!"

"This is for her own good!" he insisted. "That boy is nothing but trouble."

Cordelia patted the space next to her, and he hesitated a long moment before he leaned his axe against the trunk and sat on the root beside her. "She's not a little girl, Frederick. She's a grown woman. She should be able to do as she pleases."

"But," he protested lamely.

"But nothing. This is her choice, and she loves him. A mother always knows, it seems."

"Well, I can guarantee that _he_ is only after one thing, and it isn't her heart."

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Cordelia, although she smiled. "I've been watching him, ever since I saw how Severa started looking at him. He really does seem like he's lost interest in all the others."

He set his jaw. Cordelia was never wrong about these things, but…

"If they're both in love," she said softly, "we shouldn't interfere, should we? It must be wonderful to love somebody who loves you back. Neither of us would know, so I want that for her, at least."

He took her hand, unsure then of what he was feeling, other than the knowledge that she was right. She squeezed his fingers hard.

"I suppose I will not hunt Inigo down, then," he finally said.

"I am changing your nickname from Frederick the Thorough to Frederick the Merciful." Her lips pressed a slow, sincere kiss to his cheek.

"So if it is love," he said, preferring Wary for the moment, "what then? Marriage? It's possible that our child will have a child before _we_ have a child." He ran his free hand through his hair because the thought made his head hurt.

"She knows better than to start something during this war," said Cordelia. "As we all do."

"It will be over soon," he told her, "for better or for worse. Robin says it should only take another month."

"So it's almost time to start," she murmured, as if to herself, but it made him jolt anyway.

"Start what?"

"Trying to have a child."

"They're not even properly courting!" he protested. "It's _entirely_ too soon!"

"No, not _them_." She squeezed his hand again. "I meant you and I."

"Now," he said nervously, "let us not be rash. We've both just agreed that we don't understand requited love, and we have proof that we weren't perfect parents."

"But now we know our mistakes," Cordelia argued. "I'd hardly even thought about children before we met Severa, and now I can't get the idea out of my mind. I want a baby. Soon."

"But _my_ baby?" he asked, unable to believe that she was saying such a thing.

"Of course, your baby! You're my husband, aren't you? And seeing how good you are with Severa, I…" She trailed off, and while it was too dark for him to see if she was blushing, the way she turned her face away let him know. For a moment he wasn't sure why, and then it hit him.

"You find that attractive. _Very_ attractive."

"Well, can you blame me?" she said, an edge to her voice. She hated being teased. "That's why women stand to be with men at all, you know! So they can have good fathers for their children."

He supposed that made sense. Chrom was a spectacular father, if Lucina was any indication.

But she wasn't thinking about Chrom. She hadn't blushed to see him talk about _his_ daughter.

He reached for her chin and gently pulled her face back, just so he could look into her eyes for a while. While he was trying to read what she was thinking, she slid her arms around his neck, leaned close, and kissed him softly. After a long moment he closed his eyes and made a hard decision to just let all of his worries go, for once in his life. They didn't return to camp until well after moonrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Inigo? Because I believe he's the character Frederick would have the hardest time accepting as good enough for his babygirl. (Honestly I don't even ship them, so this subplot is more for the parents' development than any shipping reasons.) 
> 
> I've also decided that "drown me in a sack" is my favourite Severa-ism. Her supports are so funny sometimes.


	8. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A baby doesn't arrive in EXACTLY nine months," Cordelia tried, but Frederick would have none of it. If any baby did, she supposed, it would be theirs.

Cordelia was a brilliant warrior, and always had been, but peacetime came as a great relief.

It was a little odd, at first. She and Frederick married during the war, and the life they knew was filled with military routine: marches, mess duty, sentry shifts, scouting, tent-pitching, drills, battles, irregular sleep, little privacy, hunts for herbs that would keep her from becoming pregnant. Rigid habits that would save their lives, but mixed with ambushes and time travel and the constant anxiety of losing loved ones, until everything became a hazy unpredictability, until no two days were quite the same.

She needed a while to readjust to Ylisstol. To move into Frederick's small manor on his modest fief with him and look at all their things side by side: not lances and saddlebags, but her jewellery on the dresser next to the small portrait of his mother, her cases on his pillows, their clothes hanging together in the closet.

Every day began the same way. They would wake at dawn in their bed, he would kiss her face because she hated mornings, they would make breakfast together, and they would ride to the ring to train the new Shepherds. Such was Frederick's job as knight-commander, and while it seemed tedious and boring to Cordelia, while she felt her own skills start to wane as she drilled the basic ones again and again and _again_ , she didn't want to be useless. Staying at home and staring at the walls was not an option, and there was no pegasus brigade to return to.

And, as odd as it was to admit to herself, she didn't want to leave Frederick's side. It had become routine to have him within arm's reach; comfortable, even. When he wasn't there she started to feel like something was missing. So she woke up to the sight of his face every morning, and ate the same breakfast every morning, and drilled every morning until sundown, when she tried to hide her frustration during their ride back, for it wasn't Frederick's fault that she couldn't reach her full potential any longer.

At least, that _had_ been their routine. But for the past eight and a half months, she'd been with child, and that had changed everything.

She sat in the rocking chair as she considered this, tapping her swollen feet, while Frederick made their breakfast himself.

"Did I forget eggs?" she heard him ask, irate with this irregularity, and she shot out of her chair eagerly to answer,

"I'll go gather more!"

She was nearly to the door before he apprehended her and guided her back to her chair, scolding, "Cordelia! You shouldn't be moving about!"

"But I'm so restless," she complained. "You have to let me stand _sometimes!_ "

"I have to do no such thing. Your ankles are already swollen and you have thirteen days left to go."

"A baby doesn't arrive in _exactly_ nine months—" she tried, but he would have none of it. If any baby did, she supposed, it would be theirs. Sighing, she gave up as he went to get the eggs himself, but snuck into the kitchen to start cleaning the dishes he'd finished cooking with.

No matter how many times she tried to explain "nesting" to him, he still tried to force her back into her chair or into their bed, insisting that he'd take care of all the chores and organizing himself. But it didn't matter that he did it. _She_ wanted to do it. And she was quite sure that it wouldn't hurt the baby, although as far as Frederick was concerned, _everything_ would hurt the baby, from direct sunlight to too little sleep.

If anything, he was babying _her_ , she thought with a smile as she finished with the dishes. She hadn't been allowed to lift a finger since she'd told him the news.

By the time he got back with the basket she was in the chair again, innocently, thinking of how funny it was to be carrying her child after she'd already met her child. Of course, she knew this baby wouldn't be another Severa. The odds of growing the exact same seed were impossible, for who knew how many tiny things had changed since Chrom and Lucina had altered fate? She certainly wouldn't have made love to Frederick the night they defeated Grima in delirious relief, because he'd been so close to death that Lissa had needed to heal him thrice. And if she never ceased to love Chrom in Severa's time, she doubted much carrying on would have happened between her and her husband once they returned to the capital in any case.

As it was, all of her new routines and habits had kept Chrom far from her thoughts. He was in the castle now, as their Exalt, and she never had to cross his path or enter his tent or save his life at the risk of Frederick's. The ache in her heart had gone. What was there to ache about? She had new things to love, like Severa, who had promised she'd visit at least once a year, and like the child stirring inside her right that instant. And as for Frederick…

"Cordelia!" he said exasperatedly, making her jump. "I know you've been in the kitchen!"

"Perhaps you cleaned the dishes and forgot about them," she said helpfully. "Like you forgot the eggs."

"No, because when _I_ stack the bowls, I make sure all the patterns on the rims are exactly aligned."

There was always more to learn about him. It made her laugh.

"This is no laughing matter! What sort of husband am I if I'm allowing you to work? You're doing enough work carrying the baby; it's only fair that I do everything else."

"Come here," Cordelia called, ignoring him. "It's kicking."

He was out in a flash, kneeling beside her, and she guided his hand to the right spot. She watched his face, which had become her favourite part of the baby kicking. Normally his lips were drawn so tight and his eyes were so serious, but when he felt proof of the child he always acquired a look of total wonder. It took ten years off him.

"I wonder so much about it," he murmured. "Who it will take after and how much it will resemble Severa and what it will want to do with its life…" He trailed off as its squirming increased, which was uncomfortable for her, but she had to laugh when he asked in shock, "Can it hear my voice?"

"Yes, it can. I'm sure it recognizes you by now."

"I wish you had told me sooner; we could have been speaking to it this entire time. Teaching. Imagine if I'd started teaching Severa fencing in the womb; she'd be a prodigy like you. This is the four," he said to the baby as he stroked the front of Cordelia's stomach. "The widest target area, so you'll have to keep your body sideways to protect it. And this is the six." He moved his hand to her side, over her lower ribs. "Harder to hit, but if you can disengage low around the elbow it's nearly impossible to parry."

The baby kicked his hand, _hard_ , and Cordelia winced. "It wants you to stop."

"One can never start too early," he protested as he stood, but she saw the hint of a smile. She remembered him telling her that Severa called their relationship "that of a drill-master and a student", rather than that of a father and daughter, and knew he didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.

"At least let it learn to walk first," she said as she smiled back.

He pushed her hair out of her eyes and kissed her face before he went back into the kitchen. She resumed her rocking and thinking.

The routine since she discovered she was with child was the best one yet. Frederick would let her sleep in while he made breakfast, and often brought it to her until sleeping became difficult and she started rising earlier than he did. When he left to train the new recruits she cleaned the house and made all sorts of strange lunches for herself, and by the time he got back at sunset she always felt something like relief, so she gave him a kiss when he got in the door. At night, they read. Cordelia had long since put away _How to Make Him Fall for You in a Fortnight_ and borrowed a stack of books from Sumia instead, most of which had surprisingly detailed romantic scenes. Occasionally she'd start reading one aloud, just to fluster Frederick, but he always insisted that her condition was fragile and giving in to her was absolutely on his long list of Things That Had Even The Smallest Chance of Hurting the Baby. So she fell asleep on his shoulder, instead, until she got too big for that and they had to be content with holding hands as they drifted off.

Routine was good for them. It was something they both craved and something they'd both tried to demand during the war, with limited results. Now, life went exactly according to their specifications, which meant they were rarely anxious or stressed. They were in control of everything. The days were predictable and familiar. There were no surprises.

"Surprise!" somebody hollered as the front door banged open. Cordelia gave a start and Frederick bolted out of the kitchen with a whisk as if he planned on doing damage with it somehow, but they both stopped when they recognized Severa in the door frame.

"Looks like nobody's changed," she said dryly, and threw her coat on the floor as she walked in, with Inigo behind her. "Gawds, Mother, you've gotten fat."

"That's what happens," she said pleasantly, while Frederick warily eyed Inigo.

"I know," said Severa, "but I didn't realize how far along you were. You're _huge_."

"You look wonderful," Inigo told her, as if to cover for Severa. "Glowing."

"Idiot, don't flirt with my mother!"

"I'm not! That's just what you say to someone with child!"

"So it was empty flattery! How dare you! She's a wonderful woman and she deserves better!"

The boy looked flabbergasted, and Severa turned to her father. "I don't suppose there's enough breakfast for us. Typical."

"Well, a warning would have fixed that," he said. "But there are still eggs left, if you want to come help me gather them."

He put a hand on her shoulder to guide her to the door, and she smiled to show she'd been teasing. When they were almost out, however, she stepped away, crying,

"Wait, wait, I have to show you something! Look!"

She held up her left hand and let the sunlight catch the ring around her finger. Inigo coloured while Cordelia covered her mouth.

"Congratulations!" she said, and Frederick said the same, although Cordelia heard the undertone in his pleasantries: _It's about time the boy made an honest man of himself._

"It's no big deal," said Severa as she flipped her hair over her shoulders. "We're just going to travel around the world as exciting, married adventurers, is all. Dancing and fighting the night away. I suppose that's all too stressful for people like you."

"Quite," said Frederick, but he looked amused, and she kissed his cheek as they set off for the hen house.

Cordelia grinned to herself as she sat back in the rocking chair. Surprises weren't really so bad, especially when they were happy ones. And she'd received two in one day: Severa's visit, and Severa's engagement. All was still well with the world. Everything was still at peace.

And then she felt something hot and wet drip down her legs and pool in the seat with her; heard it splash onto the floor. She looked down at it numbly before she realized her water had broken.

This was normal, she told herself, all part of the routine. Something every pregnant woman encountered. A signal. Expected.

But she hadn't expected it _then_ , and not alone in their sitting room, and she'd never actually given birth before despite Severa's existence, and none of Sumia's books ever covered this part, and having a baby was so different from _carrying_ a baby and was she ready and what if something went wrong and the midwife was so far away and—

"Frederick?" she cried, and gripped the sides of the rocking chair while, in the distance, she saw him come running back.


	9. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long had it been since his proposal? Five years, three months, and twenty-nine days. And still she did not love him.

Frederick knew his wife had been restless.

She loved their life, it seemed, and all their habits, but he knew it was too easy for her. She needed more difficult patterns, more duties, greater challenges (greater even than raising a child, which she took to like a professional, which only made him fall even more deeply in love with her).

So he challenged her to a spar one morning, before the new recruits, to show them what they should aspire to. He was comfortable enough with his own skills, but it was really Cordelia that he wanted to show off. She had such an easy grace in battle, such a ferocity. "Genius", they'd called her, and while she hated the name, Frederick knew it described her well. The new soldiers should be able to see it, and know what they had to work toward.

So now he faced her in the ring, spread his feet, tipped the lance he held up to the most defensive position. "Are you ready?"

"Whenever you are, dear," she said. The squires nudged each other but Frederick only smiled. She looked so slight on foot, without her pegasus, but he knew better than to underestimate her.

Sure enough, she struck first, and he felt adrenaline kick in almost immediately as he blocked. It was easy to pretend that he was fighting a real war again, when he fought Cordelia, because no one else could give him such a challenge.

He'd fought for victory for so long, with her, and her spear was nothing compared to her heart. How long had it been since his proposal? Five years, three months, and twenty-nine days. And still she did not love him.

He thrust at her next; she knocked the tip of his lance aside easily.

Their son was two, now. A beautiful boy with his mother's eyes and hair the same shade as his and Severa's. The latter cooed over him whenever she came to visit. He took a long time to start speaking a toddler's small sentences, but finally did so with clarity and correctness—no baby talk for _his_ child. Lately he'd taken to grabbing sticks off the ground and trying to fight the chickens, which exasperated Cordelia but made Frederick grin. He'd been right to introduce him to swordplay early.

He pushed her back and struck high, but she dipped and countered low. They both missed, just barely. They parted. Circled.

Keeping himself calm, as a father, had been the biggest challenge. As an infant, his son could barely hiccup without Frederick running to his side in worry. Cordelia often had to remind him that he'd stifled Chrom, Lissa, and Severa by turns, and that he should relax before he made the same mistakes. He tried to listen. Eventually hiccups and sneezes and gurgles passed with only a stiffening on his part, although once the boy learned to walk all the panic returned at once. And crying was something he could never tolerate. While Cordelia was usually a little tougher on him, to teach him to use his new words instead of wailing, Frederick was always quick to pick him up and comfort him. Severa, the first child, had lived through a time of unimaginable suffering without anyone to help her, and he couldn't stand the thought of this second child suffering at all while he was around to stop it, not even from a simple bump to the head from waddling into the kitchen table.

He landed the first hit, which skidded off Cordelia's epaulet with a loud ring. Some of the recruits cheered for him. She didn't even flinch, but struck his lance out of the way and surged forward, and he only dodged just in time.

They'd struggled with naming their son. Frederick had always assumed he'd name his first son after his Exalt, out of respect for him—and love for him, for he had not seen Chrom since the war, and sometimes missed his charge fiercely. But Cordelia had shaken her head and insisted that Chrom was absent from their relationship, and she intended to keep it that way. And he kissed her then, really kissed her, as he hadn't been able to for weeks, since they'd been so tired from caring for the baby.

Soon they were locked in a long combination of parries and ripostes, both of them refusing to give ground, until sweat ran into his eyes and her face was red.

In the mornings, before Cordelia woke, he'd taken to touching her face. She had such sharp, beautiful features, and seeing them on Severa hadn't been quite the same as seeing the same ones rounded on their son, the child they'd made together, and knowing he'd grow to look more and more like her. He would brush the tip of his finger over the bridge of her nose, her high cheekbones, her brow and jaw and thin lips and the rim of her ear. And then she would smile and stir and mumble gibberish. Sometimes he heard his name.

"Ha!" she cried, breaking his thoughts, and he realized he'd become distracted as the shaft of her lance came cracking down. He blocked it with his and shoved her away, but didn't manage to throw her off-balance. She came at him again with another cry. He jabbed for her head and she ducked under, earning gasps from the crowd that had gathered while she rolled forward and came up under his defences, her point landing just under his chin while she knelt before him. In a real battle, it would have gone right up to his brain.

He cast down his lance in defeat and took a step back before anybody mentioned how close they'd gotten. It took him a moment to realize it, since he'd become so accustomed to having her near—lying against his side at night, curling her arm through his when they stood side by side.

When had that started happening, he wondered, as Cordelia bashfully tried to wave off the cheers that the recruits were throwing at her.

"That's how it's done," he told them. "Now back to work!"

"Sir!" they chorused.

"Thank you," said Cordelia softly once the crowd had dispersed. "I really enjoyed that—giving something my all, once again."

"You certainly haven't become rusty," he said with a smile. "If you prefer, we could do this more often. In the mornings before I leave, perhaps."

"If our son doesn't run out of the house and decide to join in."

"Well, someday he must."

"I should go home to him," she said, and he nodded. They had a couple of servants to help keep the fief in order, and they could look after the child for a little while, but truthfully Cordelia was no better than he was about getting nervous, and preferred to be at the boy's side whenever she could. He kissed her face before she left, and ignored the "ooh"-ing of the younger recruits.

"Sir?" one of them asked timidly once she was gone, breaking the drill he was conducting with his partner. "Did you let her win?"

"What?" Frederick was affronted. "I would never. It's an insult. Cordelia earned that victory with her talent; nothing more."

"I just don't understand, sir."

"What is there to understand?"

The recruit couldn't say. His partner finally ventured, "Where did you find the courage for it? Are you not emasculated, losing to your own wife?"

Frederick's reaction surprised even himself: he laughed.

"That's it," said the first recruit glumly to his friend. "We've finally stressed him to the breaking point. He's gone mad."

"I've done no such thing," he said when he could speak again. "You boys simply don't understand, yet. Pray you find such a woman to marry, yourselves. One who is strong and who will always be honest with you."

"But don't you need to be stronger than her to protect her, sir?" the second asked. "You're her husband, sir."

"That is not how marriage works," he answered. Years ago, he had been so naive himself. He knew he was strong and believed that if he poured all that strength into making Cordelia feel safe and loved, they would both be invincible. She had taught him otherwise. They were both stronger for it. "Cordelia and I each protect one another, for neither of us is perfect."

A "cuckold and a bitch", Severa had once described them. Now it was different. Now their flaws balanced out: her insecurities made him feel more comfortable accepting his own anxieties, his quirks made her feel more normal, his stifling loyalty told her she was loved while her reckless selflessness told him—

"I guess it's easier to lose to a woman when she loves you, huh, Commander Frederick?"

For a second, he was unsure of how to reply. And when he found the words, they had nothing to do with Cordelia.

"I'm sure Sir Sully would have a good response for you. You have a choice between ten laps while thinking about what you just said, or repeating it to her."

The boys took off running immediately.

He neglected watching them to look at Cordelia, now just a speck in the sky, flying toward their fief.

 _Is it easier?_ he wondered. _Don't you love me yet, in some small way?_

It felt like it, sometimes. It truly did. But for years, he'd fought this war, and for the first time, it crossed his mind that despite the peace, despite Grima's death, he might have lost. It hurt his pride much worse than a silly spar.

"Commander Frederick!"

He turned to find Stahl jogging toward him, smiling as usual.

"Stahl," he greeted. "I was just threatening some recruits with your wife."

"Oh, good," he said. "She was saying that they seem to get more and more spoiled every year. I guess that's the price to pay for winning the war, so they can grow up with plenty!" As if to directly contradict this, his stomach rumbled. "Anyway, I have a message for you, from Cordelia."

"What?" He looked toward the speck again, but it was gone. "But she was just here."

"Yeah, but I ran into her as she was leaving. She told me she forgot to tell you something: don't work too late, tonight, because she's making your favourite dinner."

"Oh," he said, pleasantly surprised. "That's kind of her. Did she say why?"

"Well," said Stahl with a little laugh, "not really. She looked back at you though, when she said it, so you know what that means!"

Frederick didn't. "I don't understand."

"Sure you do—that softness to the eyes that people get when they're in love?"

"I know you read people well, Stahl," he said, trying not to snort his disillusionment, "but perhaps you read a bit too far, sometimes." He'd certainly never seen such a look.

"Perhaps, Commander," the knight agreed right away. Too easily. Frederick realized Stahl was just letting him win this one, maybe realizing it was a subject that Frederick didn't want broached.

"Well, thank you," he said, pleasantly. "Tell Sully that I said hello."

Stahl promised to and left with another bright smile. Frederick folded his arms and watched the spot where his wife had been, wondering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making Sully a "Sir" since in her supports she's so adamant about earning that title (which would be handed down in her family regardless of actual knighthood, which she hates). "Lady" isn't quite the same since you don't have to do any martial training to be a lady (Maribelle would not agree, but Parasol Fu is a whole 'nother story). Also, I was super hesitant to give their kid a name, so that's why we have all this "the boy/the child/the etc." nonsense. Sorry about that.


	10. For Love of Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time travel makes my head hurt, but as far as I could figure, the reason Chrom has another Lucina while all the other parents have different children is because Lucina was already born before the war. Just so ya know.

When Cordelia opened the door, answering the knock she'd heard, he was standing there.

It had been ten years since she'd seen him last. There were small lines on his forehead, now, and the hard muscle she remembered on his right arm had softened a little, but otherwise he looked exactly the same: friendly, forthright, and incredibly handsome.

"Cordelia," he said with that same bright smile. The brand on his shoulder rippled as he reached up to pull the crown off his head. "It's been so long."

"It has, Your Grace." Her voice only came out as a whisper.

"Just Chrom. Please. I'm so tired of titles."

She nodded, unable to make herself say the name. Not again.

"Is Frederick home?" he asked.

"He will be soon," she answered as she looked past him, toward the fields. The sun was just starting to set. "He went into town today; he said he'd be back at sundown."

"Good." The smile widened. "May I come in? There's something I wanted to ask you both."

"Of course," she said, and let him through, and closed the door behind them.

xxx

In the kitchen she made him tea and they sat at opposite sides of the table. She thought perhaps her heart would hammer, but it kept the same pace as always, despite the fact that Chrom looked so at ease and the hair at his temples was still dark, unlike her husband's.

"Why didn't you write to tell us you were coming?" she asked, which made him grin.

"I wanted it to be a surprise. You know how Frederick hates those."

That made her smile back. "It's true. This one might just kill him; we haven't had a real surprise since our child came early."

"That's no surprise at all," he teased. "I'm sure you both told it in the womb what he drilled into me as a boy: early is on time, and on time is late."

She had to incline her head in assent; he said that so often that the baby surely must have heard it.

"How is Lucina?"

"She's fine. Eleven years old and already better at swordplay than all her peers. She wept to see me go, though; I usually make it a point not to leave her alone in Ylisstol." There was something older in his eyes, then; something darker. "I want to give her everything the older Lucina couldn't have."

"How is she?" Cordelia ventured, and his expression became even older.

"I don't know. She came back only to kiss the child, and then she left, saying it would be forever. She told me she believed that staying with me and with—well, with herself—would be complicated, and perhaps even tempt Naga's mercy. It would certainly confuse and trouble the younger Lucina."

"That was very selfless of her."

"I raise some good ones," he joked as his face finally relaxed again. "Do you still see Severa?"

"Once a year or so. She married Inigo, and they travel often, but she makes a point to visit whenever she can. She doesn't seem to want children of her own yet." Which was for the best. Cordelia didn't fancy being a grandmother in her thirties.

"And your child now?"

"I'll call him," she said as she felt herself start to beam. "Frederick still speaks of you so often; he'd love to meet you."

She rose from the table and found one of the two servants, who told her that her son was playing in the gardens. Of course, "playing" was a loose term—when she found him he was hefting his practice sword, lunging repeatedly at a poor holly bush in a drill his father had taught him just the other day.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," she said, and he came at once.

xxx

She brought him to the kitchen but they both stood in the doorway—and both a little shyly.

"My lord," she finally said. "This is my son."

Chrom looked well at him and actually laughed. "Gods, he's a perfect mix of you both. You're going to be as fair as your mother when you've grown, boy."

Years ago she would have blushed so hard she burned, would have  _wept_ to hear him say such a thing. But her face felt cool as she told the confused-looking child,

"Show your Exalt the proper respect."

"Exalt?" The bewilderment on his face was hidden when he abruptly bowed low. "Milord!"

"Come here," said Chrom, laughing again. "Let's see if you'll be as tall as your father."

Cordelia sat back down at the table and smiled as Chrom examined the size of his hands, asked him not just his name but what games he liked and whether he knew his letters yet, and started telling stories about silly things his father had said when Chrom himself was that age. That quickly turned into a discussion about swordplay, and her son ran off immediately to go practice what the Exalt had spoken of.

When he was gone, Chrom grinned at her from across the table and she thought she might burst with pride.

She had just refilled their mugs of tea and was asking him about his wife when Frederick came through the doorway, cheerfully calling,

"Cordelia, I found curtains that match the—"

He stopped in the kitchen doorway, a bolt of cloth in one arm and a sack of groceries in the other, and went deathly white. His eyes flickered between them at his table and she knew he was looking for a mussed lock of hair or a collar just slightly askew. It hurt. And this time she didn't deserve it.

"Look who's here," she said instead as she rose and went right to him, taking the cloth out of his grip and kissing him warmly on the cheek. His other bag fell to the ground with a  _thump_ .

"Milord! How are you—why didn't—there was no letter or—where are your guards?! How could you be so irresponsible?! And the kitchen table is no place for your crown!"

Chrom laughed so hard he almost knocked his chair backward, and then Frederick was righting it and Chrom was standing and they were embracing hard and blinking fast.

"But honestly," Frederick said gruffly as he pulled away. "Where are your guards."

"I didn't bring any, Frederick the Wary. This place is only half a day's ride and the Risen are gone by now."

"It's not the Risen that I am concerned with. You are the Exalt. There could be any number of assassins or dissidents after you. Do you not remember when your lady sister—"

"I'll never forget Emm," Chrom said. "But I have to be my own man, sometimes. This is important." He held his gaze, and then looked to Cordelia. "There's a favour I want to ask of you both. That's why I've come."

"We'll do anything."

Chrom took a step back, and a deep breath, and leaned against the table. "Before you immediately start chastising me, you should know that I've changed. And not for the better. Lucina asked to join the Shepherds next year, when she is old enough…and I told her no."

"But milord," said Frederick, "it is a noble's duty to serve the people. Exalt Emmeryn insisted that you and Lady Lissa spend your youth as Shepherds."

"I know," he said miserably. "It is an honourable life. But it isn't an  _easy_ one. She would always be in danger, and I swore to myself when the war ended and the first Lucina left us that I would never put her in any danger. I wanted her life to be simple and comfortable. And if anything happened to her—my little girl—" He cleared his throat and continued immediately: "She was very upset, of course. And my wife was, as well. We quarrelled for days. And now I see that I've lost touch with what the Shepherds had taught me: selflessness. This should be Lucina's decision, not mine, especially since her thoughts are with the people, and mine were only with her and myself. So I will allow her to join. But first, I'm going to  _re-_ join, just one more time, to remind myself of what I should know."

Cordelia looked to Frederick, expecting his immediate disapproval, but it didn't come. He was simply watching his lord, who continued,

"The Shepherds have gotten word that a particularly vicious gang has been harrying the villages near Plegia. It's the largest group we've seen and spreads across nearly the entire border. The soldiers posted there can't handle them because they can't leave their posts, and it's a job entirely too great for a group as small as the Shepherds—at least, Shepherds who only have a few years of experience."

"So you want to recruit all the old ones," said Cordelia, piecing it together quickly.

"Cordelia the genius." It didn't feel sarcastic or jealous when Chrom said it, and she returned his hesitant smile. "It's been ten years, Frederick. I am happy following in Emm's footsteps, and I'm happy in the castle with my family. But the people I fought alongside have become my dearest friends, my deepest bonds, and I've hardly seen anyone since we parted. What if I could reunite us, just for a short time? Sully is already coming, while Stahl stays with their child. And Lissa and Miriel and Kellam and Vaike. Henry. Libra. Nearly everyone. Will you?"

"Of course, my lord. I will come."

"And I," said Cordelia, which made Frederick look at her, startled, with the suspicion back in his eyes. She held his gaze easily.

"What of our son?" he asked.

"I'm coming," she said. "You won't stop me."

She saw him break—just a short flicker of pain in his eyes, but something that was replaced with absolute hollowness. It hurt her, too. But like the first time they had ever fought, she would explain herself soon enough. As soon as Chrom was gone and he would be able to believe her.

xxx

"No, Mama, don't leave!"

Cordelia almost didn't, watching the tears streaming down her son's face. He had broken down as soon as she and Frederick stepped over the threshold, horses saddled and waiting outside, and it wasn't  _Father_ that he'd pleaded with. Or even  _Mother_ , as he'd taken to calling her recently, believing himself to be a man before he'd even lived a decade.

"Mama, no!"

It was as if all sense had left him. Despite Frederick saying where they were going, promising to be back within a month, and cajoling that soon Stahl would arrive to pick him up and take him back to his fief to stay, where he could ride horses and spar with his daughter—the spitting image of Kjelle, but redheaded—he had simply cried and cried, and begged them not to go.

"I feel like I'll never see you again," he said, and Cordelia looked to Frederick. His face was tight; she knew he was thinking of a parallel Frederick trying to calm a similarly hysterical Severa. She felt a deep pang of…something. Not guilt, because she knew she was doing the right thing. Irony, perhaps. An ironic knell that resonated in her bones, that understood she would return to her beloved child this time but had to watch him cry first, just as Severa had cried. This was progress.

It was scary to think that if Severa and the others hadn't interfered, she would be a different Cordelia right now, a Cordelia that knew without a doubt that she would die and never return, despite her promises. Perhaps even a Cordelia that was leaving not to watch her husband's back, but to watch Chrom's.

"Nothing can stop us from returning," she said, knowing it was true, and knelt to hug her son tightly and kiss his face. When she stood, Frederick did the same. "Don't you worry. It will take us a month, and by the time we return, you'll be such good friends with Stahl's girl that you won't want to leave."

"Why do you have to go?"

"I've explained the bandit situation a thousand times—" Frederick started, but Cordelia raised a hand to stop him. Their son didn't need facts and figures and duties. He needed reasons, emotions.

"We have to go because we love Exalt Chrom," she said. "And because we love your sister, who—when you are much older—will explain to you that we had to leave today in order to come back and prove a point. And also because your father and I love each other, and if he is riding with the Exalt, I must go too, to make sure that he is safe while he protects the others."

Frederick gave a small start at that, but she ignored him. It was a conversation for the road.

"And most of all, because we love you," she finished. "We don't want any bandits getting up here to hurt you. So we must go."

"Can't you both just think of yourselves for once, though?" he asked. "Can't you stay here, where it's safe?"

"Now," said Frederick, "that isn't how a knight should behave. We must always love others above ourselves."

Cordelia kept her eyes on her son's face, and was proud when he took a deep breath and scrubbed his tears away with the back of his hand.

"I'll train very hard while you're gone," he said.

"We know you will," said Frederick. "And if you do well, perhaps Stahl or Sully, when she returns, will want to take you as a squire."

Cordelia saw the excitement dawn in his eyes: this wasn't an abandonment, it was an apprenticeship. But she couldn't help herself from kissing him one more time before she finally mounted her pegasus. She would miss him terribly.

xxx

They were on the road nearly an hour, headed toward Ylisstol proper, before she finally looked to Frederick, who had been silently brooding upon his destrier.

"I meant it, you know."

"What?" he asked, jolted out of his thoughts.

She smiled.

"That I love you. I love you, Frederick."

He halted his horse abruptly and she did the same. For a while they just looked at each other.

"I really do," she said softly. "I've loved you for years, now. I just couldn't tell you until I was absolutely certain; until I knew my heart would  _never_ change again. I didn't want to say something and then hurt you."

Any other man would be offended at those years of silence—but not Frederick. He needed surety, thoroughness, complete and careful thought. And if that took years on her part, so be it.

"I heard what some of them said about us," she said when his mouth opened and nothing came out. "That I settled for you. But that was never true. I married you because even though I didn't love you then, you were the best man I knew and the best person for me to be with. I understood that, even at the time. The truth is that  _you_ settled for  _me_ . For a woman who didn't care for you like you  _should've_ been cared for. You deserved more."

She cut herself off when his eyes began to shine. "Frederick, are you crying?"

"No!" he insisted as he hastily drew a hand over them. "Crying serves no purpose but dehydration. You're mistaken."

"I," she said with a grin, "don't  _make_ mistakes. I'm a genius."

"I just—I feel so—the body responds to surprise in bizarre ways—"

"Come here," she said, and he nearly flung himself from his steed as she dismounted hers. She didn't know who began their kiss; it was simply happening, hard and salty and very warm, right in the middle of the road where anyone could see them.

After all these years, her stomach swooped with butterflies. It was such a relief to finally confess and such a joy to make him happy and such a perfectly synchronized gesture, kissing, not just giving or accepting kisses.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, clinging, her breaking away to whisper her feelings and make up for lost chances, him meeting her lips again each time she tried as if to say that there was nothing more he needed. That their life together had been and would continue to be as flawless as they always tried to make their circumstances.

Frederick ended their carrying on for good by resting his forehead against hers and cupping her face in his hand.

"I was so happy with your friendship," he whispered. "With being your partner. I did not think I could be any happier." 

"It's in my nature to exceed expectations, I suppose. Even yours, Commander Frederick." 

His laugh fluttered against his face as he shook his head. "So it is. I am lucky." 

"Me too." 

Their lips met again, briefly, and when they pulled away they shared a long look. It ended when they both realized at the same time that they were _wasting_ time.  

"We should be on our way," said Frederick. "Milord is waiting."

"And our child," she said as she returned to her pegasus. "Look at us, dallying! The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return to him."

They set off again for the castle, secure in the knowledge that nothing would ever happen the way they planned it, as Cordelia had said on their wedding night, but also knowing that the future had changed, and they with it. And a month later, as punctually as promised, they journeyed safely home by the same road. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read along and left me your thoughts! Somehow this has managed to be the most popular of my works so far, both on Fanfiction.net and here, which is super confusing because I'm pretty sure I'm the only Frederick/Cordelia fan in the world. But I'm very happy this long ol' story brought some people some enjoyment. Thanks again!


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